And, slowly and solemnly, she explained this situation, her daughter’s regrettable misfortune, the husband’s revolting venality, the painful resolution she had been obliged to come to of giving the fifty thousand francs, so as to put a stop to the scandal which covered the family with shame. Then she severely continued:
“Remember what you promised, Narcisse. On the evening of the signing of the marriage contract, you again slapped your chest and swore that Berthe might rely on her uncle’s affections. Well! where is this affection? the moment has arrived to display it. Monsieur Josserand, join me in showing him his duty, if your weak state of health will allow you to do so.”
In spite of his great repugnance, the father murmured, out of love for his daughter:
“It is true; you promised, Bachelard. Come, before I leave you forever, do me the pleasure of behaving as you should.”
But Berthe and Hortense, in the hope of working upon the uncle’s feelings, had filled his glass once too often. He was in such a fuddled condition, that one could not even take advantage of him.
“Eh? what?” stuttered he, without having the least necessity for exaggerating his intoxication. “Never promise—Don’t understand—Tell me again, Eléonore.”
The latter recommenced her story, made weeping Berthe embrace him, besought him for the sake of her husband’s health, and proved to him that in giving the fifty thousand francs, he would be fulfilling a sacred duty. Then, as he began to doze off again, without appearing to be in the least affected by the sight of the invalid or of the chamber of sickness, she abruptly broke out into the most violent language.
“Listen! Narcisse, this sort of thing has been lasting too long—you’re a scoundrel! I know of all your beastly goings-on. You’ve just married your mistress to Gueulin, and you’ve given them fifty thousand francs, the very amount you promised us. Ah! it’s decent; little Gueulin plays a pretty part in it all! And you, you’re worse still, you take the bread from our mouth, you prostitute your fortune, yes! you prostitute it, by robbing us of money which was ours for the sake of that harlot!”
Never before had she relieved her feelings to such an extent. Hortense busied herself with her father’s medicine, so as not to show her embarrassment. Monsieur Josserand, who was made far worse by this scene, tossed about on his pillow, and murmured in a trembling voice:
“I beseech you, Eléonore, do be quiet; he will give nothing. If you wish to say such things to him, take him away that I may not hear you.”